They Must Not Know Me

I am a weak person. When it comes to my "spiritual life," I don't have a "thorn in my flesh," I have a freaking briar patch. Honestly. They may not all prick at once, but they're still there-- always. They don't go away. They're like incurable cancers for my soul. They might go into remission-- but they're still there, bidding time until the chance to become active arises once again.

Depending on how I move and turn, a pricker is there to remind me of my faults. And you know what? Sometimes the pain feels good. No pain, no gain, right? bah. And yet, it's true that sometimes I relish the pain; I play chicken with the pain. I see how far the thorn can dig into my flesh before I cry uncle and crawl back into the only Healing Hands I know.

Yesterday was Communion Sunday. Usually I *love* communion Sunday. I run to the altar, ready to lay my wretched self before my God. Yesterday I felt hobbled. I prayed for God to meet me where I was, to pick me up and carry me to the table-- to cradle His beloved between His shoulders. I prayed to even be that beloved one.

Eventually I shuffled to the front, briar patch in tow, and cried and hugged friends and took the body and blood of Christ to my sour lips. I felt as if my body might reject it-- or worse, it might reject being in my body. I prayed that it would, like a drop of soap in a pool of oil, dispel the darkness, displace the yuck.

And people asked me if I was ok. No. No, I'm not-- but I will be, hopefully, someday. Someday.

Then, in the wake of feeling so inadequate as a person, much less a Christian, one of the Church elders suggested I lead a class or something! Say what?!? I had sent him some of my writing and he loved it. From these short essays (things I've published here), he determined that I have a lot to teach the women, the people, of our church. To teach our church (since the people are the church). I felt like running and hiding. Me? You've got to be kidding me. You must not know me that well.

I wouldn't know what to say! I wouldn't know what to "teach"! I'm far too inadequate to teach others! I once asked my dad to teach me how to golf. He said no and that there was too much wrong with his stroke to teach me.

People, when it comes to spiritual strokes, you might as well call me Happy Gilmore--I have my own, not-so-graceful, form, etiquette and style. He asked me to pray about teaching; about leading some sort of small group or however it is that God would want me to lead others. hmmm, I guess that means I *actually* have to pray... something I don't seem to do much. So, I'll pray. Um, and freak out. And then try to pray some more-- or at all.

Who knows. Maybe God wants to teach the Church about taking sloppy strokes, replacing monstrous divots and cute plaid pants. Maybe nothing will happen at all and the whole silly idea will just slip away. Or, maybe it has nothing to do with anyone else, maybe He just wants to work on my stroke... we'll see.

Whudda Thunkit?

So, I've hit a few milestones as of late. I believe they're share-worthy.

I took my first real vacation as an adult two weekends ago. Since college, I've gone on missions trips and spent numerous weekends heading back to the motherland or attending to wedding festivities, but two weekends ago I got to go to Florida and sit around doing nothing but soaking in rays, reading and enjoying the fellowship of some great friends. Now *that's* an actual vacation.

As of last Saturday morning, I am officially signed up to train for the Nike Women's Marathon in San Francisco, October 23 with Team in Training. Over the next five months I will not only get to kick my butt in gear (Saturday was my first run in about a year... four miles, not too bad) and get a Tiffany's Necklace for a medal-- I will also get to raise money to help Leukemia and Lymphoma research-- and yes, I will set up an online account so that you can all help me raise the $3,800! This is a big step for a girl who would duck out of the mile warm up in 8th and 9th grade track practices! Whatever, I was a sprinter! Remind me to get new shoes and refill my asthma inhaler... Seriously, I don't know which thought seems most daunting right now, running 26.2 miles, raising $3,8000 or having to be at group runs at 7 a.m. on Saturday mornings in order to prepare. ;-)

Thanks to Teacher Dave for letting me know that Relevant picked up my Skydiving essay! It's my first time being published!!! yay!!

fun times, friends, fun times.

I Want To Do This

The World's Got Me On A String

My freshman year of college I decided to go skydiving with a group from my dorm. Being that I was already 18, I didn't need parental consent, so I didn't tell my parents until after I had done it, which allowed them to freak out but be happy for my safety. It was actually a rather safe process. We had to go through extensive training. We spent one night watching safety videos and then an entire afternoon practicing on-site before they let us anywhere near the plane.

The kind of skydiving we did was called "static line." Basically, your ripcord is attached to the plane so that, when you're at the end of the static line, your parachute is pulled for you. A large portion of our training involved "what to do if your static line fails to pull the ripcord." Every jumper pack was equipped with a primary and a backup parachute, you know, just in case.

Due to weather conditions, our foursome didn't make it into the air that day and had to come back later, but when we did, there were so few people around we got to go up twice each, if we wanted. And, honestly, who doesn't want to jump out of a plane twice in one day?

Looking back, I can pretty much view the actual act of skydiving in four phases. First of all, you have the anticipation: riding up into the sky, huddled on the back floor of a little plane, waiting your turn. For me, this phase involved a lot of praying. "Dear God, please don't let me die." The second phase is the actual jump: the fear of stepping out into the sky and letting go of the plane. Here, there is actually too much attention being paid to the actual process and being prepared for "plan b" should the static line fail, that little attention is being paid to anything else.

Third, after the anticipation of the jump, the shock of the jump and the relieving jerk of an opening parachute, comes the wait. This is the most peaceful part of the jump, if you're not impatient. I remember sitting up in the air thinking, "wow, the world looks amazing from up here," and "wow, this is taking forever!" You can toggle left or right here, maybe do a little circle or whirly gig, but, especially for a novice such as myself, you just wait and keep your eye on the landing ground.

Finally, fourth and last, comes the landing. After the seemingly endless stint of sitting on top of the world, you have to focus in again and prepare for the quicker-than-you-ever-thought-it-would-come-at-you landing. The closer you get to the ground, the faster it comes at you and if you're good (or lucky), you'll hit the ground running. If you're not, you'll end up like me, on your hands and knees in a mound of muddy snow: twice.

Right now I feel like I'm in the third phase of this particular stage of life. I've been anticipating big things, I've mustered the courage to let go of the plane and I've felt a little tug of assurance at my back, opening to a canopy above. I'm just waiting like a kite on a string, trying to not let my impatience ruin the view and focusing on landing, hoping it doesn't come too quickly or too fiercely.

Thrown by the Unthrown

I've been thinking. I know, it's a dangerous activity, but I've engaged in it, nonetheless. I've started wondering what those famous words in John 8, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and "go and sin no more," really meant to the woman caught in adultery. So often these passages are preached as ones of freedom. These words freed the woman from her accusers, freed her from debt, freed her from her sinful life... the only life she may have ever known.

I think these words wrecked her life. It may have been a shamble of a life, but what it was wrecked, nonetheless. I've heard it preached that the adultery was a set-up: how else could all of those godly Pharisees know where to catch such a sinful act? I've also heard that perhaps the woman wanted to get caught. Perhaps she let down her guard. Perhaps she was in such a horrible state that she didn't care who knew anymore.

I've had this feeling. You may scoff but, honestly, if no one sin is graver than another, than I can feel that anxiety, too. And I have. It's a strangling feeling. It's a feeling somewhere beyond lonely. It's isolatory. It's a deadly silence.

Even if she didn't abide by the laws of Moses, she clearly knew them. In such a saturated environment, it would be hard not to. This woman knew where her acts would lead; she knew the consequence. I think she let down her guard because she wanted to be caught. She wanted to be stoned. For her, death was the only way out.

Finally, her day out had come and she was caught. Maybe standing before Jesus wasn't as hard as we all think it might have been. Standing there in her shame. Maybe she was relieved; relieved to finally be released from her suffocating secret. Perhaps she stood there relieved that her hellish life would finally be over. She stood there awaiting the stones.

And then came those words, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," and her accusers turned slowly away. Her hopes of release slipped from their reluctant hands as her heart fell with every stoney thud to the earth. And the tears probably streamed faster and harder now, her face turning red with anger towards the man who stole her only way out.

Then Jesus looked up. He met her eyes and her fever cooled, her hands began to tremble in a way they never had before. He confessed he would not condemn her, he would give her freedom. Freedom to return not to the life she's always known, but to something else-- what she did not know. "Go and sin no more," he said.

And with those words, her hollow lifestyle shattered, revealing a tender, new child. The life she had known was over, just as she wanted, but she was not yet released. Now she had to learn everything anew. But something in those eyes both calmed and riled her soul. Just the fact that she finally felt the presence of a soul was enough to stir the butterflies in her stomach. Now she had a new skin, one delicate and pure, yet stronger than any of the surrounding stones.

Her old life was wrecked. Her whole sense of being was wrecked. The only way she could think of to get out of this world was no longer an option. And yet, Christ had given her a new way out, one she could have possibly never imagined: one difficult to comprehend even after the fact.

As a child of God, myself, one who has heard, "go and sin no more," I still have a difficult time accepting the saving power of grace. I still expect stones and lightening bolts, plagues for my misdeeds. I expect penance. I expect to do my part. Grace takes most of that away. God says, "In repentance and rest is your salvation... but you would have none of it." (Isaiah 30:15) Grace wants me to repent and then rest in it's faithfulness.

This sort of revelation wrecks my world. It takes away my control, leaving my mode of operation in a pile of rubble-- a heaping pile of uncast stones.

But You Have Such a Youthful Spirit

This past Sunday I had lunch with a new friend. We've known each other for quite some time, but we don't really know much about each other. We've hung out in groups, but this was our first one-on-one. It was nice.

We got to learn more about each other, including ages. Since she just moved to Nashville a short number of months ago, I suppose I assumed she graduated recently. Well, you know what happens when you assume, right? yeah. What's funny, to me at least, is that she thought I was about 21 or 22-- a few years younger than herself, while I am, in actuality, a year her senior.

She was shocked. Was it my wife-beater tank and my cute little skirt? My sparkly self-tanner? (which, for the record, I would prefer to not have sparkles) No, she's seen me in more refined attire and a paler complexion. I mean, she doesn't even know about my snickerings at the President's pronunciation of the word "assume." She just thinks I have a youthful way about me. I'm ok with that.

This test is pretty right on, though. The age I act changes by a year depending on whether I answer that I watch The OC or CSI. So, the question begs to be asked: What Age Do You Act? Holla...

You Are 25 Years Old

25 Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

Excuses, Excuses

I do my best, most creative thinking at night. Right before falling sleep, I lay in bed, my mind reeling and twisting around colorful imagery. My brain rattles off deep, intellectual essays expounding upon theological and psychological revelations. Well, perhaps not to you, but they're awfully revealing to me.

Well, they might bring you revelation, if only I posted them for you. You see, the thing is this: my words never seem to flow as well by morning's light. I know, I know, I should write them down at night so that I can then share them with you in the morning. I thought of that last night, but it seemed too much effort at the time. It really is the weirdest thing. It's like my mental word processor shuts down when I fall asleep, without saving the project on which I was working.

I have a lot of great thoughts. Thoughts about waiting. Thoughts about singleness. (those two are actually not connected) Thoughts on emptiness and echoing. Thoughts about how God takes all that away. I was just about to say, "if we let him," but it's not even about letting him, it's about realizing that he can... and has. It's funny how we lock ourselves in imaginary cages like that.

It reminds me of a quote from The Last Battle; Chronicles of Narnia, Book 7, "You see," said Aslan. "They will not let us help them. They have chosen cunning instead of belief. Their prison is only in their own minds, yet they are in that prison; and so afraid of being taken in that they cannot be taken out."

We are all so selfish, prideful and independent that we don't see the beauty of being weak, dependent on someone else's strength-- especially when that someone else is all-powerful. I suppose all of this is to say that I realize my own god-complex more and more with each bedtime, mini-revelation. If only I could carry those lessons through the night.

What I Shouldn't Say

Does anyone know of a good exorcist? I swear I've been inhabited by the demon known as "a-12-year-old-boy's-sense-of-humor," "heh heh, heh heh" for short.

For instance, I was at a friend's house during President Bush's press conference the other night. She was on the phone. Our dear president would say something about the nation's conditions and assets and I would giggle. And did anyone notice how he pronounced "assume?" Just not right.

What's even worse is that during church yesterday our pastor was talking about prayer and faith and the such when he said something about our duty. At this point I tittered and poked my friend whispering, "he said 'doody.'"

I'm really kicking against the goads of aging hard, aren't I?


As a matter of fact, I just wrote "tittered." heh heh heh heh

More Secrets Revealed!

Ok friends, one more confession... I have been seriously delinquent in updating my links and in doing so, have kept some amazing people from you. I'm terribly sorry. I think I may have doubled my links section today! Sheesh. That's a lot of peops. Well, I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

These are mostly people I know from college and they all have wonderful, funny and perhaps wonderfully funny things to say. :-) I have also added my cousin because she rocks and because perhaps if I have a link to her, she'll write more. Perhaps even about her newly announced pregnancy!!! Maybe she'll follow in Dooce's footsteps and recount the process for us. Then again, do we really need to go through that again? ;-)

Ok, ok. There are the links. You see them. Enjoy!

Confession

Stay away from me, I'll be gone soon... It's just so hard to let go once you've grabbed hold. ~from Twenty Three Places by Matt Wertz

I have a confession to make: I shut people out, push people away. Now, I'm not so naive or self-centered as to assume that this confession is mind-boggling or that I am alone in such tactics. I guess I just needed to get it off of my chest: to confess.

Obviously people tend to push away and shut out others whom they might find annoying or crass. However, this is not the offense to which I am confessing. I am speaking of the more heinous, more negligent misdemeanor of closing one's self off from the ones he or she loves. And this, my friends, is a crime I believe more of us than not commit.

It is an offense I hold near and dear. It is a defense mechanism I cherish. After all, isn't life more about self-preservation? Survival of the fittest? Hammy. Perhaps. Unless, of course, you believe in the healing power of community.

You may not know this but you, my friends, have become a community to me. And yet, by not posting or by posting inane trivialities, I have pushed you away, shut you out. It's not that I don't want your advice, your help, your succor. It's just that I don't think you *can* help right now.

All too recently I have learned the draining effects of spilling all to others who are in no position to help. Since I know you are in no position to help, I have simply left my musings to those nearest me. I'm not going through any problem of great consequence, just living life. And those day-to-day decisions can be difficult sometimes.

So, I post randomly and beg you not to forsake me completely, while, at the same time, giving you no real reason not to do just that.

Perhaps this is just another of those misleading posts. One of those pleas to love me even when I'm inaccessible. Or possibly to begin to love me, at all.

In truth, you don't have to love me. I know enough people do. I know God does. And I am learning to even love myself.

In short, you may come or go; do as you please. Just know that I'm out there somewhere, even if not at the keys.

The Hardest Thing

What I've learned so far in life is that rejections are not the hardest part: disappointment is.

Whether it's disappointment in one's self, disappointment in someone else or disappointing someone else, the presences of disappointment takes the reins far too often in my life.

My mom would say that she spanked me when I was growing up, but I don't remember that. What I remember most, and remember fearing the most, was disappointment. While most kids feared the phrases, "Bend over" or "Get the paddle," I feared the phrase, "I'm so disappointed in you."

There were times in my life when I knew I did something wrong or had information my parents should know. Usually, I would hide. At least, at first. However, after a few minutes in the dark closet or under the bed, I would feel the threat of impending disappointment. Knowing that I my faults required discipline, I also learned early on that running from the inevitable discipline only increased it's term or severity. I also knew that if I didn't face up to responsibility, my father would be "very disappointed" in me.

So, I squiggled out from under the bed or pushed through the pleats and sleeves to face the music: face my responsibilities.

Lately I have regressed to that little girl who runs for cover when things go awry. I know I have a responsibility to step up to in this life: to live and be joyful. This is probably the greatest responsibility I will ever face and if I don't, the repercussions will surely devastate. I need to face my responsibility and take whatever consequences result from my decisions-- be they good or bad.

Unlike that little girl, however, I am not going to simply sit on my bed and wait for a punishment. I am not going to sit by in fear and trepidation, stiff-lipped and blurry-eyed. I don't have to wait with steely conviction to appease my accuser and confess my errors.

No, this time I won't wait for disappointment to threaten my character before I step up. Because this time I know the accuser has no power over my intercessor. I know impending disappointment is rebuked by grace, rebuffed by mercy. I don't have to fear because I love and am loved. And, if I'm not mistaken, there is no fear in love. Nor is there disappointment or guilt or shame.

There are, however, actions and reactions, causes and effects, consequences and responsibilities.

And that is okay.

Dialect

When I tell people I'm from Wisconsin, they generally respond with a few different things. My responses/commentary are in parentheses.

A very nasal, "You mean, Wis-KAHN-sin?" ("Did I say it like that? I didn't think so.")

"So you're a cheesehead?" (or some other equally unoriginal comment about cheese. yeah, Wisconsin makes cheese, get over it.)

"Do you like the Packers?" ("I'm pretty sure I'd be disowned if I didn't.")

"Brrrrr."

"How'd ya git down here?" ("I drove.")

or, my personal favorite:

"You don't sound like you're from Wisconsin." ("Thank you. Thank you very much.")


Conversely, when I visit Wisconsin and tell people I moved to Nashville, I hear the following:

"Do you like country music?" ("I did. Then I moved to Nashville and found better music.")

"What are you doing down there?" (And a bunch of other questions like that.)

"What brought you to Nashville?" (too long to answer here)

and, of course my favorite:

"Do you have an accent, yet?" ("Does it sound like it? Ok, ok, only on certain words.")


I attribute my lack of midwestern or southern accent to music (and perhaps my over all love of the English language and its grammar-- yep, I'm a nerd and I don't care). I grew up singing in choirs and taking voice lessons. You don't really get to have a personal accent when you sing choral music. You take on the accent of the piece. You absorb the accent of the choir; the phonetics of the language in which the piece was written. I've had the priviledge of singing in German, Latin, Italian, Spanish, French, Hebrew and Swahili, to name a few.

I've also had the priviledge of singing in a cappella. I don't think you understand the necessary absence of personal accent until you're trying to get a group of fifteen women to pronounce such phrases as "bwah bwah dop," "bwher neher lerhder der der" and prolonged vowels as one voice. I can't tell you how many hours we spent in rehearsal just matching words, vowels and consonants. But it was worth it.

Therefore, when I took a short accent quiz today (as seen on Perfect Blue Buildings), I wasn't really surprised at the results:

Your Linguistic Profile:

70% General American English

10% Dixie

10% Upper Midwestern

10% Yankee

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Although I find it "Upper Midwestern" kind of offensive to be lumped in with the Dakotas and the U.P. (you would too if you'd ever heard them)-- at least it's only 10% and I'll attribute that to me saying that I drink from "water fountains" when I'm not having a "soda." I also fault them for not having some sort of West Coast language classification.

So, there are my results. Now how about you? What kind of American English do you speak?

Because I Love You

I had to tell you about Ray Lamontagne's Forever My Friend. For some reason it has struck a chord with me (no pun intended) and I just want to listen to it over and over and over again. It's amazing.

Give it a listen.

Once again the world around me struggles to overcome one season with another, birthing a new sense to its scenery and skyline. The comparison of seasons stands stark as the winter-grey sky rumbles and rolls its clouds over the spritely green lawns and flowering branches.

Spring rain bothers me not as it brings the promise of softening the frozen earth and encouraging the emerging buds. The air, itself, eases with the release of spring rains, as though Spring herself laughs at the final tantrums of Winter's reign before he at last subsides before her gentle smile and countenance.

This is the time of year when Demeter might savor and rejoice in the company of her daughter, Persephone, released, if only for a short time, from her Underworld Kingdom. The ground bursts into flower at the passing of her dainty footfall. The air lightens by her very breath. The wind calms himself by weaving ever so delightfully through her tresses.

No, Winter has no power in her presence, though obstinate he might be. Soon he shall succumb to her radiant beauty. Soon her song will leave no blade unfurled, no branch unheralded. Soon Winter shall be denied his tyranny till she at last returns to her husband and master below. Till then, he must quit the earth and bother us no more. Till then, we might think of him no more and in her homage find delight unforeseen in her absence.

Welcome her friends. Welcome Spring's fondness and mercy, at last.

Hello There Stranger

I know it's been awhile. I'm feeling much better and thank you for your well wishes.

I apologize for my absence, and for that matter my lack of substance prior to my absence. It seems, however, that life has been far too real lately to spin imagery for you.

I finally saw "Finding Neverland" recently. I understand J.M. Barrie's desire to retain childhood wonder so much. I fear with each waking day I become less imaginative and more real, if that makes any sense at all. Just as the character Barrie says in the movie: "Young boys should never be sent to bed... they always wake up a day older."

I fear I've seen too many nights sent to bed and too many mornings awoken to a lessening wonder.

Life as a Pariah

Since it has been a while since I have posted or even been around, perhaps I should explain. I think I have been sick for about a month now. First I had regular old sinus problems, and then the flu attacked me, only to ebb away into sinus problems again. Now, I apparently have strep throat.

I cannot remember the last time I had the flu. Aside from being born with a strep bacterium, I have never had strep throat. Needless to say, I am not really sure how to deal with these things and have spent a lot of time on the phone with my mom and sister in the past few weeks.

My friends have been good. One even brought me popsicles last night. He and my roommates are about the only ones who have not treated me like a leper or social pariah. Honestly, my friends and (especially) my roommates are the ones who should be most afraid of catching whatever ails me! I got some penicillin yesterday and feel better already, but my co-workers look at me like I am Satan reincarnated for coming to work! I am not contagious anymore! Especially since I do not plan on sharing fluids with any of them.

Any way, I still feel bad for being here in case I might give someone else something. So, I guess I should go home. I am far to exhausted to argue or reason with them anyway.

Paradise and The Pit

The street on which I grew up dead ends into a small body of water the owner named "Paradise Pond." The rest of us call it "The Pit."

The Pit was to my childhood what the old abandoned house and creepy cat lady are to more notorious childhood legends. According to neighborhood lore, the owner barred the entrance to automobiles a few decades ago after three drunken teenagers drove themselves down our road, making The Pit their own personal graveyard.

Stories like this one and rumors about drug deals and satanic rituals made The Pit off-limits to us kids, unless I was walking the dogs. Of course, making it off-limits also made it our favorite place to hang out. My friends and I spent many afternoons and weekends exploring The Pit and its surrounding marshland swamp. A few of our favorite hangouts were The Wall, a rusty, abandoned crane and a little fort we made in the nest of some hills.

The Wall was just that; a rugged cement remnant of some long-forsaken building covered with graffiti and over run with trees and weeds. In retrospect, it sort of reminds me of the Graffiti Bridge in Purple Rain. The wall is where the "big kids" hung out and where the drug and satanic action supposedly took place, so it was specifically off-limits. Although it was generally strewn with beer cans and cigarette butts, I have only one memory of seeing a bunch of trashed teens standing around a fire at The Wall and they didn't seem to be offering any sacrifices to me.

The crane wasn't really in The Pit, but in the marshy swampland on its outskirts. Every once in a while we sought out a dry trail through the reeds and spent hours climbing in and around the crane. Others might have seen it as an unsightly wreck or a case of tetanus waiting to happen, but to us, it was our very iron-oxidized fortress of solitude, moat included. Sometimes we would even bring a boom box and a picnic out there to make a day of it.

Our most secluded place, however, was a nest in the crown of a few hills, hidden from the prying eyes of the nearby trail. Here my friends and I would nestle down in the long, dry grass and share our lives. We would twitter about boys and vent about family. We would divulge our personal stories and unfurl our dreams of growing up and getting away.

Lately I dream less frequently of growing up and more frequently of getting away. However, the more I dream of getting away, the more I realize I have no stable place from which to take off. I have no crumbling wall of graffiti, no rusted fortress, no batted nest from which to take flight. The more I dream of getting away, the more I long for a take-off point. Perhaps, while in a state of growth, we dream of leaving the nest, yet in a state of being grown, it is the flight we dream of leaving behind.

Answers

1. Linger~ The Cranberries
2. Trouble~ Shawn Colvin
3. Fast Car~ Tracy Chapman
4. Nobody's Cryin'~ Patty Griffin
5. Poughkepsie~ Over the Rhine
6. On Fire~ Switchfoot
7. Oh My Sweet Carolina~ Ryan Adams
8. Title and Registration~ Death Cab for Cutie
9. Love Songs~ Fleming and John
10. When You Come Back Down~ Nickel Creek

Lyrics Quiz

So, I've been wanting to do this for a while, but someone said I need some tougher lyrics... so, here are 10. Give me artist and title.

1. "If you, if you could get by, trying not to lie, things wouldn't be so confused."
2. "You don't have to drag me down, I descend."
3. "He says his body's too old for working. His body's too young to look like his."
4. "He jumps in a taxi for the sky. He's off to slay some demon dragon fly."
5. "There are those who know sorrow and those who must borrow and those whose lot in life is sweet."
6. "I'm standing on the edge of everything I've never been before."
7. "All the sweetest winds, they blow across the South."
8. "'Cause behind its door, there's nothing to keep my fingers warm."
9. "Paint me a picture with images blurred, so I can see what I want to see."
10. "I'll be the other hand that always holds the line connecting inbetween your sweet heart and mine."

Go.

An Interview from Myles

Suzanne has a new game, called the interview, in which you get asked five questions, which you then have to post both questions and answers to your blog. And so, in an effort to detox from a half hour of the Inquisition and to satisfy Suzanne, the interview...
Here are the official rules of her interview game:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
6. I will answer reasonable follow up questions if you leave a comment.

1) When given the chance to have veggies or meat, which do you choose? Does your stomach suffer from eating so much meat?

I would choose meat. I like it. yum. No, my stomach doesn't suffer from eating meat. You miss it, don't you little veggie friend? (although I do admit I like a good salad... though I'd probably have it with chicken)

2) When was the last time you passed gas in public and didn't claim it?

hmmm... that's a difficult one. I think I was gassy in Atlanta a few weeks ago, but I think I told my friends. No, I'm not going to tell complete strangers.

3) You're on a desert island with one book. What is it? No, it can't be the Bible.

I'd want an ibook with connection so I could get off the island... MJ had a good one with 1,001 Ways to Survive on a Desert Island but since he picked that I think I might have to be a typical geek and say Lord of the Rings. I know it's marketed in 3 volumes, but it's really all one book.

4) Which comic strip character is dying to get killed off? How do they die?

gah. I only read one comic and I don't want any of them to die! so, um... one of the cavemen in that prehistoric comic gets eaten by a sabertooth tiger... yeah.

5) Fill in the blank: I feel most guilty being alive when I see (blank).

I feel most guilty being alive when I see statistics on how many people die of disease and starvation a week (as many as a tsunami a week) and am throwing away my leftovers or buying a new lipstick.

Lie to Me. I Promise, I'll Believe*

I believe man is born with an inherent need to believe. He thirsts for knowledge before birth. Even in the womb, babies explore their growing bodies; they kick out, they punch, they find their appendages and savor the atmosphere. Once birthed, they have an entire new world to explore and figure out.

At a baby shower this weekend, the mother-to-be explained how babies want to be swaddled for a while at first because they're used to a small, warm environment and, "they feel like their limbs are going to fly off!" How traumatic! If I ever have kids, I will swaddle them so that they don't have to have appendage-flight anxiety. From the beginning a child needs to trust and believe in the parents, needs to believe in the dream that all limbs are safe.

However, without the nurturing assurance of a parent and loved ones, the baby might just believe that all appendages are bound to detach sooner or later. That is, until they don't. You see, if we don't believe in one thing, we will automatically believe in another. We have a need to believe.

Whether you know it or not, you believe in something. You might not believe that your limbs might unhinge at any given time, but that is, in fact a belief that your limbs will stay attached. The absence of believing in one thing is the same as believing in another-- the absence of a belief-system is, in itself, a belief system.

Does any of this make sense?

*Ten points for getting what song this is from. No Google allowed. :-)

One of the most grievous and frightening things about the state of mankind is that he wants so badly to believe in something that he'll believe in almost anything.

The Sun Slept In

Last night I awoke here and there to a crash of thunder or emblazoning bolt of lightening illuminating my room. This morning, when I finally peeled myself away from my warm and sweetly enveloping bed, the sun still lay slumbering beyond the horizon. Or at least it so appeared since the wind still raged and cumulus nimbi continued to drape themselves across the celestial sphere. As I left the house, I turned to back porch light on, assured the day to be one of gloomy darkness.

Then, as I drove northward into work, something happened. As the clouds relieved the horizon of their foreboding presence, light came glimmering through as though the world might finally awaken for the day, as if I saw the sun rise a few hours late. I haven't seen a sunrise for quite sometime, but I imagine it would have appeared as so, with the darkness retreating, giving way at last to the clarity of the dawn. Sunsets, which I also haven't seen in a bit, offer glorious layers of light and dark as the sun makes a defiant exit. Sunrises are less like the tympanic nuance of "Also Sprach Zarathustra: Sunrise" and more like the slow, steady unfurling of a flower or the methodic unraveling of a tattered sweater.

Today I got to see the morning unwind.

I want some of this. Now. I wonder if others will notice if I "accidentally" spray them with it, as well. Actually, I wonder if there's enough in one bottle for how many people I might need to spray. Maybe I'll order two... or ten. 

Pick a Side

Happy Valentine's Day, one of the most divisive days on the calendar since Election Day--and at least that only happens every four years. There are people who like Valentine's Day and people who hate it. There are people who love it so much they decided to do it again in October and call it "Sweetest Day." Valentine's Day is going to happen whether I want it to or not, therefore I think it rather annoying to buck against it. I mean, I like Halloween even though I'm not a vampire, werewolf or ghoul. (perhaps I should say, even though I'm a Christian and it's supposed to stand for evil. whatever)

Yes, I believe that it's just another commercial holiday-- a ploy to capitalize on a sugar rush in the lull between Christmas and Easter candy. Not for me, though, since I take forever to eat it, I still have Christmas candy. As a matter of fact, it's a running joke in my family that I would have Halloween candy until Christmas and Christmas candy until Easter and then who knows how long I would have the Easter candy. So, I'm still good on candy.

What I could use more of, however, is love. Don't get me wrong, I have loving family and friends and a loving God. I just think everyone can always use a bit more love. So, lets try to remember to love each other after the sugar rush (or bitter taste for those anit-v-day readers) wears off, ok?

The Girl I Mean To Be

I never pictured myself to be the most mature among my friends and colleagues. My hope has always been to remain youthful and spritely. However, lately I feel like I just want to yell at people to grow up. I've had the ever growing feeling of having to play mother to some. I've tried to balance this by being less mature myself, shirking responsibilities, but it has just recently occurred to me that the solution isn't me dumbing down, but them growing up. There comes a time when you have to take responsibility and if you don't you plant the onus on others around you.

I'm trying to figure all of this out. How to age gracefully, if you will-- and I'm not talking about wrinkles. In an attempt to pacify any encroaching tension and anger, I'm listening to a semi-operatic musical. Sounds like a mature thing, right? Nah, it's a musical we did in high school. Brings good memories. Plus, I like it. So, there.

We'd Drive Around For Hours Hearing Adam Counting Crows.
I Miss Those Nights*

Tuesday was the 2nd anniversary of the end of my aunt's battle with cancer. Therefore, yesterday was the 2 year anniversary of Patricia Lee. This is one of those times that it's hard to believe God is good. Losing a loved one at a "young age" seems to disprove justice. Seeing that loved one struggle through seven years of pain before finally succumbing to rest numbs the mind to mercy. Wondering whether or not God predestined her choose heaven cries for grace to kneel in judgment: my judgment. And yet, who am I to judge? No one. So I sit here. Wrestling with these thoughts, I scream to God, "Why?!?" Is this good and just? Is this merciful?

He says yes. All He does is good and just and merciful. I do not understand. He says, "I know."

I don't know if I ever will. He says, "I know." I ask what will happen in my future. He says, "I know." That somehow brings me peace.

He says, "I know."



*From Emily Deloach's song, Almost Tried. It's nice to know I'm not alone in finding loss difficult.

For Goodness' Sake

I have a mother who loves me. She spoils me and cares for me. She worries about me. She treats me well. I have a sister who loves me. She laughs with me and cries with me. She treats me well. I have a dad who loves me. He spoils me and cares for me. He worries about me. He treats me well. I have a Father who loves me. He is just and gracious. He does not treat me well. He is good to me.

I have had relationships in which I have been treated well and treated horribly. I have treated others well and treated them horribly. People change. God is good-- unchanging, unfailable, unbelievable. For, whether I believe it or not, God is good. Whether I agree or not, God is good. Whether I feel like I'm alone or wrapped in His arms, God is good. Whether I feel I am a disgrace or cover in His grace, God is good.

We can't truly be good to each other. Sometimes, with all that's wrong in the world, it's hard to remember or believe it, but God is good. And having God be good to you is so much better than being treated well.

0.25 Seconds

Yeah, that was the average length of viewing per visitor to PRE last week. Ha. Kind of pathetic. Makes me want to write something heinously long just to see if I can get that time up. However, I suppose if I posted more than once a week then people would have to stay longer just to check out the new stuff. Fair 'nuff.

So, here's a story kids. I was hanging out with a couple of new friends last night and we ended up in a sort of who do you know/ six degrees conversation. Except that since we live in Nashville and the Information Age, it was more like three degrees of separation, if that, across six states, or more. Funny, funny stuff. Then, to show what true nerds we are, we get online and start showing each other pictures of all the people we were talking about. Simply hilarious. Totally geek-a-rific.

I guess this is a more light-hearted post than what I've been throwing up here once a week. I've just had a lot of stuff on my mind and it's not a bad thing. I've had to think about things that I've either been ignoring or never realized. And I've had to be more creative in other senses, so I suppose I've let my little bloggings fall to the wayside. I can't promise I'll write more and I can't promise I'll write less. I'm just here.

Thanks for sticking with me any way.

Much love.
~Me

Unpacking
Before me lays an ornate box of sturdy mahogany and golden gilding, smelling faintly of warm cedar and chilled lilies. It bears no easy lock and key, but an intricate puzzle both diamond sharp and dangerously enigmatic viciously protecting its precious keep. Mere flesh and bones cannot undo the trances and barriers fortifying the innocent-seeming-yet-undeniably-mysterious crystalline conundrum of a latch. Inside, you see, wrapped in iron and silk hides my vulnerability.
I suppose it is not the most kosher step to reveal my need for vulnerability only to disappear and leave you with a cryptic message about a rope and a well. Don't worry, I'm doing well (ha, "well"-- get it? "well?" nevermind). As a matter of fact, that rope message wasn't so much about the rope as it was about the well. I don't feel at the proverbial "end of my rope" by any means. It's more that sometimes I feel emotions so deeply that I haven't the words or reactions with which to define them. In that sense alone am I left high and dry-- at once both a fish out of water and a diver out of air.
But, it's a nice change of pace.

I Need A Longer Rope

Sometimes I feel as though my well bottoms out far deeper than my bucket could ever descend.

Candid Does Not Equal Vulnerable

Last night I went to hear Donald Miller, author of Blue Like Jazz speak at the Belcourt. I expected a lecture and got a book reading instead, a surprise for which my frazzled mind applied much gratitude. An even bigger surprise, however, laid in the personal revelation I drew from the question and answer time. Someone in the audience asked Don how he could be so vulnerable in his writing. His first, and characteristically comical, answer was that it's easy to be vulnerable when you don't think anyone is listening, or in this case, reading. Expanding upon this thought, Miller cited artist David Wilcox's answer to such a question. Let me paraphrase it this way: unless you give people the opportunity to hurt you, they can never be close to you. Miller, in turn, decided that he wanted people to be close to him, so he opened up.

I share this all here because, honestly, this blog began as a medium in which I might express my vulnerability. As I listened to Don last night I thought about how right he was. It's easier to be vulnerable when you don't think anyone is reading. I've said that the most powerful music and writing occurs when the audience feels as though they have stumbled upon the artist in an intimate moment; one they feel almost ashamed to peer at and yet one from which they cannot pull away because it resonates so much within their own hearts and longings. However, the magic only works so long as the artist continues unaware of intruders.

I have been that person here. I have tried. I have also hidden her from the glaring eyes; an admission that hurts because, like Donald Miller, I want to be close. Last night I realized, however, no matter how many deep secrets I tell you or lies I dispel, I am merely being candid. You see, I've found that I can reveal myself to you without being vulnerable. I can be honest and still be safe. But it is in this safety that my ability to be vulnerable dies. It is in this safety that my conversations and relationships become more shallow. It is in this safety that the living well of my relationship with God evaporates to a mere puddle, the ground water dried, the crops malnourished or dead.

You see, I need not worry about being candid with God because He knows everything anyway. There is nothing a I can hide from Him. Being vulnerable, however, involves being candid with myself; revealing to myself the truths and lies from which I hide. What I learned is that I can not be vulnerable with you because I am not honest with myself. That lesson, in itself, may be the first act of honesty I have taught myself in quite some time. Perhaps it will continue. We shall see.

Appeal for Advice

So, I have a problem. I've talked to a couple of sources about it, but have come up short. I have yet to google it, because, honestly, I'm not sure what search would even work. Therefore, I have decided to lay it out and hope someone on the grand world wide web might have and idea...

I gave blood a month ago and that elbow has been sore and stiff ever since! I've talked to the red cross and they just said to apply moist heat. I've applied moist heat. I've been wary of working out---ok, I just haven't worked out... but I finally did this past week and its still sore and stiff! And to top it all off, the people looked really nervous as I was giving blood and I think the girl who stuck me was new because the other people were watching her very carefully... details which have not eased my anxiety about my elbow.

Any ideas?!?!?

Update on the Po' Man's Mocha

1. Clean Snowman-shaped mug from last mocha.
2. Fill mug with "interesting" workplace coffee.
3. Add gas station powdered hot chocolate mix.
4. Stir with candy cane.
Yields one (1) po' man's peppermint mocha.

In other news, it's the New Year; a time to "wipe the slate clean." People make resolutions as if entering the New Year is like walking into the classroom of life on a Monday morning after the janitors have washed the blackboards with soapy water. Throughout the week teacher marks up and erases the blackboard, but no matter how many times erasers clap against it or each other, a chalky residue lingers stubbornly behind. No, the chalkboard is never as clean as it is on Monday morning.

Today is the first Monday morning of the New Year and I've already miffed my "resolution" to get to work earlier. I've already chalked-up my board. However, I didn't enter the New Year feeling all sparkly and polished-patent-leather new, so it doesn't seem like it really matters. And does it? Does it really? Do our lives truly depend on one day a year to cleanse our misdeeds and clear our slates? Think if classroom blackboards only got washed at the beginning of the new term. By the end of term the teacher might have better luck illustrating his/her point by tracing through the chalky residue with his/her finger instead of adding to it with more chalk.

No, I think there's a reason why janitors wipe the blackboard once a week as opposed to once a year. And I think that we don't need a New Year to wipe our slates clean. As a matter of fact, I don't believe a New Year can really wipe our slates clean. After all, are we not a sum of our days? Do we not all have some sort of chalky residue somewhere, perhaps in the running board or around the edges where one might forget to clean? Behind one's ears? Is there a shelf too high or a gutter too low to reach on a regular basis?

So, this is the New Year and I don't feel any different.* Well, at least not any more different from the daily, weekly, monthly, moment-by-moment cleansing process to which I've already set my paces. I don't have to wait for one day a year to atone from my wrongs and turn a new leaf. It could happen any day, any moment and yet I'll still be the same. And yet I'll be different. A sham and a hypocrite and a truly genuine person all at once. A paradox for which I am glad.



*lyric by Death Cab for Cutie

So, it's Been a While

I haven't written anything anywhere since before my birthday-- which, by the way, thank you all very much for your incredibly non-Christmasy well wishes.

Here's the general update: Christmas with the fam was good; cold, but good. Actually, my mom and grandma thought I looked sad on Christmas morning. I said I wasn't, but perhaps I was (and I know they'll read this, so here's the explanation). I wasn't sad about what I did or did not receive, I was sad about what I was unable to give. I had a lot of grand ideas for gifts (that I will not give away here since it's bound to be read by those parties to whom I wished to give and perhaps someday might still be able to give) that never actually materialized. They weren't fancy gifts, just things I wanted to be able to do. That's all. I wasn't sad with them, but with me because to me the present thing is more about giving than receiving. (yes, yes, I know, thank you Tiny Tim) And presents are more about the thought put into them than the dollar value. So, I guess I was just sad that my thoughts never materialized and I wasn't able to show my family how much I truly love them. I mean, it really is the little things that mean everything.

Right now I have a lot of those little things swimming around in my heart and mind.

Preamble to a Birthday

Today is not my birthday. Tomorrow is. However, tonight I am having a small group of friends over to mark this lovely occasion. Last night I slaved over my family's traditional birthday rum cake-- which came perfectly out of the bundt pan this morning without any finagling or cutting it away from the sides of the pan, exciting me beyond words. Tomorrow night, on my actual birthday, a friend is having a Christmas party and promises to have a cake for me, as well-- a very sweet notion, but I almost wish she wouldn't.

It's not that I'm completely bitter or anything. I mean, I like Christmas and all, but when it comes to my birthday, Christmas celebrations tend to steal what little flame my birthday might have had. Over the years I've shared my birthday with Christmas/Holiday celebrations, winter dances, final exams and graduations. For once, I just wish I could be selfish and say my birthday is mine. Last year I sort of did this by devoting the whole day to the Lord of the Rings "Trilogy Tuesday" marathon. And what a glorious, butt-numbing day it was!

So, tonight I'm having people over. We'll sit around, chit chat, eat cake and other tid bits and just relax, because that is what I want to do with my birthday. I want to slow down. I want to break the cycle of going out for birthdays and simply stay in. I want a low-key night with good food and good people. That's my idea of a wonderful birthday. In fact, the very thought of the stillness of it all sends joyful shivers of excitement down my spine.

One dreams of being blessed with great friends, but in awaking to the reality of them finds the dreams wholly unsatisfactory. 

I remember my grandfather as a brilliant engineer who used to watch debates on CNN and C-SPAN while we kids roamed around the house. Though generally slow to speak, he surprised us time and again with quick, witty barbs. As years racked up and passed him by, however, my grandfather slowly fell to the dimming effects of Parkinson's disease. His quick wit came off the shelf less and less until his hibernating lucidity pinned it forever to the far back corner of the shelf. In the end the disease sapped him of all energy, mental or otherwise until he could hardly recognize us, much less summon quick anecdotes.

I can hardly measure which left a greater pang, seeing the gears in his head grinding away only to stop stubbornly on the tip of his tongue or the altogether vacuous expression of an ever-ebbing memory. So often I looked into his eyes to be met with an impish glint of mischief. Over the years that sparkle morphed into something else. Instead of dimming, like one might automatically assume, the light in his eyes seemed to diffuse from a glint to a gleam to an overall glaze, as though they simply reflected another light, not unlike the moon reflects the sun. Yes, in the end his eyes shone not the story of his years, but a mere echo of the soul that once extended to the tips of his every limb.

Though technically my grandfather by marriage and therefore not linked by genetic makeup, I nearly understand how it must have felt, for I too sense a form of sanity slipping through my fingers. Too often I feel my eyes glazing over like a deer caught in the headlights of life. Whether it be the ubiquitous act of walking into a room only to completely forget the purpose of doing so, the easily understandable act of typing the wrong password into one of my many email accounts or the more heinous crime of missing a loved one’s birthday, I find myself stepping on the virtual toes of this dance partner called memory day in and out.

And yet, others often accuse me of grandiose acts of nostalgia and sentiment. My mother went through yet another box of my left behind, but not forgotten, wares and relics hibernating in her cellar. In it she found old pompons, a diary from my cheerleading trip to Ireland, books I had written and illustrated in grade school and notes and birthday cards hailing from the beginning of time. Some objects she finally wrenched through my imaginary protective shield, enabling her to throw them away. Others, however, still emanated the spell of my sentimental value, charming her into keeping them for yet another day or year.

Perhaps this is why I find little room to remember menial things today such as my locker combination or home zip code. My memory banks simply cannot contain it all. Years of treasures, pages of stories and reels of homemade movies hold them captive. You see, the fact of it is this: I do not so much cherish sentiment as much as sentiment has long since besieged my heart and mind, stubbornly refusing to let them go and making room for the new only when they have finally become old.


For what you label sentiment, captivates my every step.
Binding history round my soul. Ne'er to let this prisoner go.
To live the moment, yore's lessons borrowed
For every today turns yesterday tomorrow.

The Least Wonderful Time of the Day

As I groggily rolled out of bed this morning I had a running commentary going through my head about the blog I needed to post regarding my disdain towards waking up. Surely waking up heads the list of my least favorite times of day, right? Then I worked on my budget and finances... oy. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new winner.

I think I'm going to go drown my sorrows in a homemade mocha consisting of cheap powdered hot chocolate mixed with the sludge that oozes from our staff kitchen coffee pot.

Stay tuned for more on this subject...

Open the Eyes of My Heart

We sang this song at church on Sunday. I learned it in college and it tends to bring a certain meaning to my worship times. It reminds me of different times in my life and many times of worship. The song used to be one of my favorites. I used to smile at hearing the opening chords. When I was down, hearing the song reminded me of happier times.

I spent one summer on a mission trip where we sang praise songs every morning. That summer the song made me homesick; made me cry. Whenever I hear this song, I retreat to my own little world. Over the past few years I've hardly heard it, but when I have, it has filled me not with joy or homesickness, but awe and fear. To be perfectly honest, I'm terrified to, as the lyrics beg, "see You."

I don't want to see God. I mean, I do, of course and I long to see Him-- when He has brought me up to Glory with Him. At the thought of seeing God, I find myself less like Thomas, boldly asking to touch His side, and more like Isaiah, crying, "I am ruined!" I know that Christ has "bridged the gap" between God and man, but I am still afraid.

Maybe it's my Catholic upbringing, the one that had me fearing morning lightening bolts for forgetting bedtime prayer-- literally. It was that God who scared me away from religion at all. Who wants a god who will strike him down for simply being human? And yet, though my frequent sacrilegious humor would suggest otherwise, it is that God I still fear.

I think it's healthy to fear God, though perhaps not to the extent that I sometimes do-- and not nearly to the extent that I most often find myself where I forgo any fear at all. Jesus is not my buddy. He is not my pal. He is my friend, yes. But He is also my King and my Savior and my Lord. He deserves reverence. He offers grace and mercy. We deserve death. He offers adoption into His family.

Just as adoptive parents ought not lord it over their adopted children, neither does God lord His adoption of us over us. Just as adoptive parents do, God cherishes us as His children and as gifts. As the Christmas season draws near and I think of so many gifts that will be opened and tossed aside, I think about the gift of adoption. Adoption is gift to both parent and child. It is a gift to be cherished and revered.

This isn't to say that the parents and children don't still get in fights; that the children don't still disobey and the parents don't lose their tempers. It isn't to say that the children won't go afoul, go astray, have a hard time looking into their parents' eyes when they've lied. Too often, my human state leads me to many a situation where I lie not only to my adoptive Father, but to myself, thinking that it'll be alright. After these situations, I find myself like that disobedient child, looking at the floor, kicking the dirt.

Unfortunately, these situations happen so often that I find my head easily bowed, not out of reverence, but fear and shame. Fortunately, my Father is not ashamed of me and there is no fear in Him (for He is Love and there is no fear in Love). What I am thankful for, then, this Thanksgiving, is not only my adoption and my redemption and His forgiveness; it's that He lifts my head and allows me to look on His splendor, allows me to be bathed in His beauty while I would have wallowed in my filth. For, even when I am terrified of asking to see Him, even when I don't want to see Him, He wants to see me.

Just Curious-- A Poll

How many people would actually want my CD?
Even if was just a somewhat ghetto copy (aka--price negotiable)?
Leave a comment, even if you've already told me.
Thinking about options here, kids.

Kamikaze Animals
or
There's My Hubcap!

Few random things today.

There is a large pale yellow dog (perhaps a lab, but probably a mix--still cute and playful looking) in my neighborhood who thinks it's fun to chase my car and run, particularly, in front of it. Excuse me doggy, but I don't want to hurt you, so please stop trying to meet your maker via my tires-- they're not that great to begin with-- my tires, that is.

Last night a deer ran out in front of the car in front of me. In five o'clock traffic. In a completely non-wooded area. From a school parking lot, even. It was a doe, I could tell that much. And a little too far from home. Looks like they ought to put a deer crossing sign next to the children crossing sign.

This morning on my way to work I saw a hubcap laying on the sidewalk, half emerged in some bushes. Someone might need that.

Last night I finally put a light bulb in our final living room lamp that has been light bulb-less since we moved in May. Subsequently, my roommate knocked the lamp over this morning and broke the bulb. I actually thought that pretty funny.

I love that I've gotten to know the people who work at the gas station. They treat me so well.

The lady who calls me "baby" (in a very southern-motherly way) at Arby's doesn't seem to be there any more. So sad.

I like soup.

And sleep.

A sparrow flew overhead, its tawny underbelly grazing a wayward leaf. Surely this dainty creature meant to escape this frigid clime. Perhaps the sudden onset of winter caught her as much off guard as your suddenly cold demeanor caught me. As she wheeled through the sky I wondered where she might land. I wondered her intentions, or if she even owned the capability to intend at all. More than likely she merely wound around the world on instinct, chasing the sun like the moon rising and setting without pause or recourse, day after day, night after night.

I wondered your intentions, and conversely, if you wielded the desire to intend anything at all. Perhaps you just float through life on whims and instincts, chasing skirts as an Autumn gale chases sienna leaves, leaving the trees naked and bare; leaving them cold and alone.

Above me, the sparrow alit on an already stark branch, the end of which jutted out in a jagged mess-- presumably some damage from one of the many recent storms. She sat there. She didn't sing or preen. She just sat there. Once, I almost thought she looked at me; almost thought she was wondering what I was wondering. Almost.

You sat there. You didn't apologize or make excuses. You just sat there. Once, I almost thought you looked at me; once I almost thought you wondered what I was wondering. Once. Almost. Almost. Once.

And I sat there. Staring. Staring at her. Staring at you. Never looking at myself. I never wondered what I intended or what I was truly wondering, deep down in the honest depths where I loathe to go. Never. Not almost. Not once. Never.

Then she flew away. And you flew away. So I sat there, naked and bare, cold and alone as the trees in winter. Not because of her. Not because of you. Because of me.

Um, uh...oops

I'm wearing red, white and blue. Today. Election day. Not on purpose. Gives new meaning to the term "Freudian slip."

Dear Mother Nature,

I hate to sound resentful or insolent, but Autumn ought to be gilded with a few gusty winds and loads of brilliant sunshine, not dull, dreary, overcast skies day after day, night after night. Forgive me my rebuke, but I do believe you may have mistaken Autumn for Spring.

Sincerely yours,

Lady M

what's going on over there?

Heeeeeeere's Elmo! (little costume part-ay last weekend to preview Halloween this coming weekend)
 

Yen

I have been craving pizza for days now. Even the consumption of some the other day did nothing to sate this desire. And yet, I cannot bring myself to actually purchase some pizza. Therefore, I will sit here with the food I have and glower and dream of crust and sauce and toppings of splendor.

A Cold and A Broken Hallelujah

It seems the most draining and most exhilarating times of my life can be punctuated by a cold and a broken "hallelujah." The root of "hallelujah" in Hebrew is "hallel" which means "to praise." There's actually a difference between "Allelujah" and "Hallelujah." "Hallelujah" means "praise him" and "Allelujah" means "I praise him." (if parsing and memory serve me correctly) It may not seem like much of a difference, but it really can be. For it is in those most dark and disparaging times when one must cry out through humility and shambles, Hallelujah! For here it is a challenge, a proclamation, a demand, not only to ones' self, but to others as well "Praise him!" It is in these times that we need reminding to praise. It is in these times that I do not readily come to him saying "allelujah," "I praise him" that I must be reminded, "hallelujah," "praise him." "Hallelujah Ha-melek" "Praise the King."

For once in my life I was actually chastized for using my "filter."

Last night I picked my car up from the shop and ended up adding an oil change onto the tab. I sat around talking with one of the guys there and another customer while another mechanic changed my oil. We went through the normal exchange of pleasantries: Are you from around here? No? Where are you from? What brought you here? yadda yadda yadda.

After giving some of my explanations the two men responded as though I had given them the shaft. They said they could see a lot more going on, they could see the wheels turning in my head, spinning furiously, only to have me spit out an abrigded edition in the end. Perhaps it actually just takes me that much effort to not say everything that I'm thinking! That's probably it. Filters take a lot of work. Phew.

Maybe that's why I don't write as easily on here any more either. I know that, whether I like it or not, every word must be strained through a necessary filter lest it come off too brash or garrish and land me into another intervention with those who have yet to attain a greater understanding of the fine nuances involved in the art of blogging. Hence, if you see my wheels turning, don't look away. Just know I wish there was more that I could say.

Dependence and Departure from Reason

The past, oh (thurs, fri, sat, sun, mon...) five days have been relatively interesting relying on the kindness, generosity, patience and transportation of my benevolent friends. My car's been in the shop since Thursday, as you can probably devise from the above. I'm not very good at relying on others, so it's been a good lesson. And the lesson is: I need my car. Ok, ok, I need to be a little less independent at times. But I'll probably forget that once I have my car back which will hopefully be today-- however, I still need a ride to the bank to get money and then to the shop to get my car. Another lesson is in a source of dependence that I could use less of-- that of falling back on family for cash flow. Sucky. I hate it. Strong budget, here I come. At least I'm not overdrawing any more-- that's a step in the right direction, right? I hope so.

Any hoo- I've also decided that I'm going back to being random. This blog was created to be both an outlet for my inappropriate humor and a pressure release for my over-analytical brain. I've been doing too much of one and not enough of either. So, here we go.

I got honey in my hair this morning, which is sad because I could have used more in my oatmeal.
I haven't missed not seeing the sun rise, I hope to go back to not seeing it rise sometime very soon.

I'm wearing an awful lot of pink and brown today.-- I guess you could include my brown hair in that.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love hearing "Friday I'm in Love" on the radio, but it still weirds me out when it's played on a day that's not Friday. Maybe Katie Couric heard it today, too and that's why she said it was Friday this morning. We've got a long week ahead kids.

I sent in a resume for a Proof Editor position, but didn't proof the cover email-- which had errors. Yeah, good job, kid. :-P

I'm off to finesse an article into saying something else.

Over and out.

Till Death Do Us Part

In all my quarter-life thoughts about marriage, this is not a phrase I have spent enough time contemplating, or at least not in the right way. I have recently realized that in spending a considerable amounts of time weighing the gravity of the lifetime commitment of "to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, till death do us part," I have overlooked the eternal ramifications of "for this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh."

A week ago, one of our chaplains lost his wife to a long battle with a particularly rare form of cancer. He's taking it very hard, as well he should. He's lost the women who he fell in love with at first sight. I've heard the story once or twice, but it's just as beautiful no matter how many times I hear it. While visiting his home on break from college, he saw her from afar and asked his brother, "Who is that girl?" Then he said, "I am going to marry that girl." She was only about sixteen at the time and he was about nineteen, but in the years to come he pursued her and they had a beautiful, long, devoted marriage.

The past couple of years have been really hard on him, you can see it in his face, hear it in his voice. When she was doing well, so was he, but when she went through rough patches, it was his face that stood as the weatherworn billboard of their trials. Hearing him talking about her and the faith he has had throughout this entire process encourages me greatly, which I suppose is why I have felt such a devastating loss at her passing.

To hear and see him speak is to understand how much she truly means to him. In her passing, I've come to realize that sometimes there are bonds so strong that death simply can't "do us part." In thinking about love and marriage, I find myself hoping for something that will last the strains of life, I've never given thought to enduring the strains of death.

In light of all this thinking, I've also been carving out some little lyrical snippets, here's a bit:

I said I would hold you, have you till the end
Promised only death would do us part
Now I know those solemn vows were mere lies upon my lips
For even death cannot tear me from your heart

It's not fair. It's not fair. No one asked my opinion
It's not fair. It's not fair. No one had my heart in mind
No one told me today would feel like the end of time
No one told me I'd be buried in your grave

Less Is More

That's my excuse of the moments as to why I haven't been writing very much. I could give you the day-to-day updates, but who wants those, right? Don't say you do. I won't believe you.

Just know that I'm home safe and sound and had a wonderful time with family and friends. Work has not let up any more, but hopefully I will have something to say soon.

~til then.

Actually Busy

Sorry I haven't written! To be honest, I've actually been rather busy and when I'm not, I haven't the energy left for contemplation. Sad excuse, really, but it's true.

I'm also trying to go about writing a different way. Not necessarily the content of my writing, just my commitment to it and composition of it. I'd like to extent an inky tentacle into journalistic avenues beyond these pixels. I'm simply trying to reevaluate my style and substance. Perhaps I've spent so much time pondering those haphazard alleys that I've left barren the street on which I'd grown up. Forgive me. I have no news regarding these exploits, but be assured that when I do, you'll be the first to know.

Speaking of where I grew up, however, I'm heading off to my mom's house tonight for about 5 or 6 days with a quick overnight jaunt. Therefore, please do not be angry with me if I do not check in as much-- however, seeing as how I'll have a little less to focus on, I might just be writing more! Guess we'll find out.

Sound Byte

I'm trying to drown out stripper music with Enya. Is it working? ~Courtesy of yesterday's yoga instructor

Sometime between when I was going last winter and when I started up again a few weeks ago, a *ahem* "gentlemen's" club has set up shop below my hot yoga studio. Thus far I haven't noticed too many obstructions, aside from the stone fountain and metal barricades around the grey-carpeted entrance aisle blocking off prime parking spots. I'm not sure if it's even in full operation yet. Regardless, it still ticks me off to have to walk in front of it to get between the studio door and my car. Kind of kills the yummy, peaceful, yoga-produced vibes, you know?

If you don't know a lot about yoga, specifically Bikram yoga, let me educated you a little: it takes a lot of concentration. So much so that we hardly ever get to listen to any music, just the instructors prompts and guides. Granted, there are a few classes where the instructor practices along with you and you just listen to music, but those are generally for people who really know what they're doing. Even having other people in the room can be a detrimental distraction-- especially for us prideful sorts. Everything from the breathing to holding the poses to resting takes introspective concentration, being aware of your body's needs and gently pushing it to and stretching its limits. Needless to say, this becomes increasingly difficult with bass thumping up through the floor in to which you're supposed to imagine yourself rooted.

Even more so if you begin to wonder if you're rooting yourself onto the top of someone else's pole.

And I Quote

"Much research shows us that the neurotransmitters we thought were confined to the brain are also present and working throughout the body. It's a connected system. The individual is like a triangle, with the body, emotions and mind at each point. If you alter one angle, it affects the shape of the others." ~Exercise Your Bad Mood Away

If this is the case, I think I might fall into the category of some sort of obtuse triangle. Nope, no signs of an equilateral or Pythagorean triangle over here. Well, most of the day, at least. You see, it's true what they say: exercise helps regulate moods. Endorphins and Seratonin levels increase with exercise subsequently increasing one's general sense of well being and creating a greater sense of joy and peace. Unfortunately, since I've been working out at night, I only get this effect for a few hours before bedtime! Hopefully with a steady routine, I'll be able to see some of these benefits more regularly throughout my day. At least that's what those who see me before 5 pm are hoping! ; )

The Levity of Brevity

I recently wrote a post about crushes, highlighting that the majority of the charm of a crush lies in its inherent brevity. By the looks of this News in Brief snippet, I believe The Onion agrees.

CRUSH LASTS ENTIRE BUS RIDE

CINCINNATI-- Administrative assistant and bus rider Perry Stoddard, 25, developed a crush that lasted the duration of the Metro line bus trip from Seven Hills Road to downtown Monday. "Oh my God, she is stunning," Stoddard said, staring at the petite, bookish brunette sitting two seats ahead of him. "And she's reading The Idiot! I wonder if she has a boyfriend. My parents would love her." Saddened by the woman's exit from the bus two stops before his own, Stoddard resolved to get out on Court Street and find someone else.



ah the beauty of it all.

I Fell In Love With A Drummer
hmm... actually, I did, but that's a story that may never actually materialize in this medium, sorry. Nope, probably not.

What I am talking about, however, is Wilco. Yes, friends, it was glorious-- and I think I love Wilco's drummer, Glenn Kotche. Most days, I'm lucky if I can keep a beat on my steering wheel without swerving into the other lane. Any man who can play the drums and the xylophone simultaneously has my vote for hottest man on earth. Seriously, kids. So. Hot.

The concert was pretty packed. A friend struggled from the front of the crowd to meet me at the entrance gate. Being of the shorter variety of homosapien, the further I got into the crowd, the less I could actually see. Therefore, after a dismal attempt to wend our way back through the masses toward the stage, my friend and I decided to hang around toward the middle-back and actually have a little breathing room above and around us, while still being able to hear the concert well. Unfortunately, no one informed the drunk girl in front of us about a little thing called "personal space." She would literally lean back onto us even though she and her friends hoarded a luxurious amount of air and ground for themselves. Eventually I just pushed her off. They left shortly after that.

Then there were the girls behind us that were yelling over the music to have a conversation (the girls/guys in front of us did this, too). What I wanted to do was suggest to them that they'd have to yell less if they moved further away from the music. What I did was cover my ear closest to them with my hand and try as hard as I could to focus on each individual instrument along with the entire entity of sound they produced. After that, they quieted down, either due to their own personal increased focus on the music or perhaps my little hint (which wasn't an attempt at hinting, really, but an attempt to let them continue talking without ruining my experience). The only other distraction were the jailbait, who somehow got into the 18+ concert, bopping around in front of us, but at least they were thoroughly engrossed with and enjoying the concert themselves.

Distractions aside, the performance, as expected, left me astonished and amazed. The music swelled and rippled through the graveled parking lot, up my roots and into my stems, imposing its varying tempos into my willingly pursuant pulse. It all too easily overthrew my natural rhythms, beckoning my heart and mind into an adulterous fling of melodic proportions. Mesmerized by the influx and interchange of instrumental tones and textures, my eyelids grew heavy, though my teeth sunk into my fleshy lips, the corners of my mouth released in upturned ecstasy and my heals sunk deep into the ground to counter my soaring soul. Mixed in with the deep, sensual waves of sound floated bright, crisp levity both in verse and discourse, a sort of respite from the riptide that constitutes a majority the band's very aura. After two encores the band finally fled the stage for good, leaving those of us behind to mourn uprooting from our spots no longer fearing floating away in a gust of elation due to the deflation created by the inevitable end of an inspirational evening.

Told You So

Besides the fact that I told you so, here's another reason to check out Andrea: Relevant valued her thoughts enough to publish them.

Don't Hate Me Because I Get To See WILCO Tonight for $7

ok, I lied. You can go ahead and hate me. But just for tonight, k? k.

~kisses

Friends Friends

Just thought I'd let you fine people know that we have a newbie in our midst. My darling friend, Andrea, (the hot blonde, well one of them, in the picture of my beautiful friends) has decided to enter the blogosphere. She's a freelance writer, a stunning fashionista and an all around wonder. Let us welcome her with warm and loving arms as she shares with us her Mercenary Madcap Life!

Walk Of Shame

In college I was introduced to a campus phenomenon entitled the "Walk of Shame." (for some reason, I hear the low, echo-y, booming voice of "Sunday, Sunday, Sunday" when I think "Walk of Shame" in my head) The "Walk of Shame" isn't just an action, it's a look. It's Saturday night's perfectly painted eyes smeared across Sunday morning's (or rather, afternoon's) swollen, hungover cheeks. It's black pants and lace tops amid pajama bottoms and sweatshirts, high heals dragging across unfamiliar sidewalks where many sneakered feet find well beaten paths. It's a hung head and shoulders slumped with a weight heavier than any backpack on campus, because, of course, it couldn't be a "Walk of Shame" if it wasn't also an attitude. Thankfully, I didn't have the kind of social life that ended in walks of shame; at least not of this sort. See, I've come to realize that even if they aren't from frat parties gone awry, my life has nevertheless seen many walks of shame.

In thinking about this walk of shame concept, I recalled a story from my college pastor's own education at a Christian university. His walk of shame included dress clothes and pajamas as well, but with pajamas in the minority. You see, at this particular Christian school, the Sunday morning cafeteria teemed with well-dressed Christians analyzing the morning service. Showing up in pajamas, a sure sign that you had slept through church, warranted many stares, whispers and quite possibly, an intervention from your concerned brothers and sisters. However, my pastor would simply try to get around this uncomfortable situation by sleeping through church and then simply getting dressed up for lunch!

Isn't that just like us, instead of fixing the "problem" we simply slap a coat of paint on it and call it a done deal. There have been many a morning (and afternoon and evening, as well) that I wish I could cover up my social iniquities by simply changing my clothes, washing my face or slapping on a new one. And there have been many an occasion when I've tried.

My walk of shame doesn't always have a stock shape, size or situation. My sense of shame mostly occurs from letting others down: not being the successful genius my parents hoped, not being the creative creature my heart cries out to be, not lifting a finger in the pursuit of godly life. Of course, all of these are overstatements. My parents are proud of me (um, I think), I do try to be creative and my God knows that I am a faltering child, yes, but one who is trying in earnest-- giving at 100% of the 60% I have to give. And, as I was reminded this past Sunday, even through all of this, my faux pas, my downfalls, my inconveniences and embarassments, God says He is not ashamed to call me His. And when I forget, He says it again.

"You come of the Lord Adam and the Lady Eve," said Aslan. "And that is both honor enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor on earth. Be content." ~Aslan, Prince Caspian, The Chronicles of Narnia, Book 4

Postulations
Is that a word?

Have you ever wondered what God was thinking when he decided to take the human body's largest organ, wrap it around the outside of everything and then make it part of the excretory system?

Has the department of transportation ever thought about putting some sort of gritty texturizer in the paint they use to make white lines? Haven't they ever thought it somewhat dangerous that the so called borders of the streets are the slickest parts in the rain?

Is it possible that maybe my decreased field of vision is not so much due to heavy eyelids but rather heavy eyelashes?

Shouldn't I have more questions to justify making this a list, let alone an entire post?

Do I really have to go to my meeting?

Unfortunately I know the answer to that last one.
Toodles.

Basically so Paolo will Quit Whining

I usually attempt to abstain from "here's how my day-to-day life is going" posts simply because I feel that they are my fall back for when I've run out of ideas to expound upon, stories to tell or just need to rant, rave or whine myself. But, since I guess some people actually like hearing the update on life-in-general every once in a while, here goes.

Let's see, where to start... Well, for the past 5 months I have been trying to hold down two jobs in order to whip my finances into shape. Initially the plan proved prosperous. However, since my energy level, sanity and pocket book have now started to suffer at the hands of said second job, I have sadly-yet-thankfully turned in my two weeks notice and will return shortly to a life of singular employment. I will miss the cool people I worked with and I will, of course, miss the discount, but being out of the store will severely deplete my desire to obtain everything (and therefore deplete my wallet) in the first place.

Another step in mollycoddling my health and sanity has emerged in the form of a holistic doctor who has taken me off of sugar (processed, I can still have honey and fruit-- except cantaloupe), yeast, mushrooms and dairy in order to flush excess yeast from my system which can cause many of the illnesses I have been fighting over the past few years. Once we've determined what has and has not been caused due to too much yeast, we can decide how to properly treat everything that remains.

For those of you who don't know, I have had some extensive therapy in learning to avoid concentrating on what I "can" and "can't" eat, so this "diet" or "regimen" could prove rather tricky for my thought patterns. I'm also afraid of any weight-loss effects that this regimen may have, because any drastic weight fluctuation in my body tends to mess with the aforementioned thought patterns, etc. Plus, it sucks that I can't just pick up any food and eat it after I've spent so long learning that I can! I'm looking forward to the health benefits this could have, but I'm also looking forward to being done with this part of the treatment. Plus, I'm never very good at not wanting something people tell me I can't have-- I'm rather obstinate that way.

The last step in this healing process is being able to focus on exercise again. I'm going to be going to hot yoga regularly in order to help aid my body in its cleansing process, as well as tone my body inside and out. I'll get to go to the YMCA more now, too. I'm not completely out of sorts physically, but it really is amazing how much better one feels when one can work out on a regular basis.

Finally, school's started up again and with my work load cutting down, I'll hopefully get to focus more on my youth group girls. I miss them a lot. It's been hard not being able to hang out with them.

In other words, with my second job gone, I'll have a few extra hours a week that have already been filled and then some-- but I'm looking forward to it. Plus, now I don't have to worry about working the day after Thanksgiving and can actually have entire weekends free to get away or laze around at my will, not to mention being able to read, write and relax more in general. Let's just pray this all works out for the greater good.

It's Just a Little Crush Not Like I Faint Every Time We Touch
It's just some little thing, not like everything I do depends on you*

And so it begins, my aforementioned long post in the works. I'm going to investigate a topic I don't think I usually deal with here on P.R.E.-- relationships-- like, the guy/girl kind-- more specifically, my own and in plain, black and white terms. Hmm, I wonder if I can actually write an entire serious post without metaphors or allusions... probably not. We'll see.

Consider this Part I.

Today's vocabulary (sponsored by dictionary.com):

Crush n:

A usually temporary infatuation.

One who is the object of such an infatuation.

Infatuation n:

A foolish, unreasoning, or extravagant passion or attraction.

An object of extravagant, short-lived passion.

Attraction n:

The power or act of alluring, drawing to, inviting.

Admiration n:

Wonder mingled with approbation or delight.

An emotion excited by a person or thing possessed of wonderful or high excellence.

Crush v:

To squeeze, so as to destroy the natural shape or integrity of the parts

Humiliate or depress completely

Make ineffective

The noun "crush" and I have long been near and dear bedfellows. Over the years, I have fallen into many a silly schoolgirl crush. I find crushes fun because you never know when they'll hit, or why. I have crushed on boys because of their musical talents, their beliefs, their writings, their wit, their humor, their compassion, their overall style and let's face it, just because they're cute. However, I've noticed the sources of my crushes delve much deeper than I at first believed. Don't get me wrong, an amazing smile and sparkling eyes can still bring home the jitters, but I've realized that there's more to it than that.

You see I've found that what intrigues me more than those pearly whites and glimmering blues is what makes them surface in the first place. In other words, I become attracted to a boy, not necessarily with the defined "extravagant passion" but because he is extravagantly impassioned. The true foundation for my crush is not the characteristics displayed but the ideology behind them. Something in their writing, wit or style exudes a quality that, whether I understand it or not, I respect. Take "A" for example: a political science major I liked a bit my freshman year of college. Whereas I could have cared less about politics at that time, I sat and listen to him talk at length about governing issues simply because I was so entranced by his fervor for the political sphere. However, no matter how zealous he was about politics, without having more in common, the frequency and quality of our conversations ebbed away, along with the passion-induced sparkle and gleam that allured me in the first place.

Hence, we get to the "temporary" aspect of a crush, because for something to truly be a crush, it must be temporary.

You see, crushes tend to occur on people whom we know very little-- which is the basis for my theory on "New Girl/New Boy Syndrome" in which the new kid on the block gets more attention than others because she/he is fresh, uncharted territory and imaginably (though on the average, improbably) one's perfect match. Since you hardly know this person, he/she has yet to fall short of your figmented mate. Until you truly get to know him/her, the new kid gives flesh to your ideal.

Since crushes are then, by definition, temporary they're only "good" until the new car smell wears off, after that, it must ebb into either admiration or the abyss. Maybe that's why I like crushes; they allow you to investigate, to dip a toe in the water. In the long run, little crushes (n) act as buffers from big crushes (v). But that's another post for another day.


*Titling format inspired by Dave.

Man, I'd Nearly Forgotten...

how much I absolutely love mind-rotting WB television. I should have more time on week nights to rot my brain from now on. Woo Hoo!

Hopefully I'll get some time to be creative and find some muses as well.

Cheers to free time!

Happy Anniversary

wow, so, um, happy September everyone. Didn't realize it'd been so long since I'd written. I have a long post in the works. So long, I think I'm going to have to break it down into a few segments. I can't really throw that all at you at once.

Today has been not a very good day thus far thanks to one particularly stupid company claiming that I owe them money that I don't. I don't say that I hate much. I hate them.

For nearly the past week I've been dealing with some not-so-pretty side effects of quitting a Rx cold turkey. It's not something I'd recommend, but given the circumstances, it was the best decision I could make for myself at the time. Besides, no matter how much they're messing with me, I still claim the side effects of withdrawal aren't as bad as the side effects of consumption.

Despite all of these negative things that seem to be looming around me right now, I actually had a really great weekend. A friend blessed me in an enormous way. So much so that I haven't found the words just yet to thank my friend. I have not simply been blessed with this friend's gift, but even more so with this friendship and that blessing has rendered me speechless in its wake.

Oh, what about the anniversary mentioned in the title? Yep, today's my anniversary. Three years ago on this very day I made my big move to Nashville. Just me, a loaded car and Long Line of Leavers on repeat. I almost feel like I should order some La Paz in commemoration of my first meal in music city-- but it just wouldn't be the same without Kat. (I'm ok with you all being completely lost in that last sentence)